Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 53

Road Closed = Unexpected Delays

I take turns to drive my daughter and her friend to NYCoS, the National Youth Choir of Scotland rehearsal held each week at St George’s School, Edinburgh.�� My usual route��takes��us under the rail��bridge and��past the mail depot on Russell Road, a route much favoured by rugby fans from our neck of the woods,��en route to matches at Murrayfield Stadium, apparently.

A road-works sign put an end to our ambition this week.�� That access is closed for six months, while Network rail carry out much needed repairs to the rail bridge.�� In the gathering dusk, under the indifferent illumination of an overhead light, with my driving glasses on, I tried to consider an alternate route, and had to admit defeat, turn round and drive us all home again.�� Apart from anything, setting out on unknown routes in rush-hour traffic was not an attractive prospect.

Apologies delivered, I now find myself considering what I never have really faced before: Is my inability to navigate unfamiliar routes at short notice – my fear of unusual traffic routes – part of my condition, my having CP, or is it just a part of having been immobile for the first five and a half years of life?�� I can feel the��hesitation in others, when they��quickly suggest an alternate route, not wanting to voice their bafflement at what they think of as an easy alternative, while I fudge the issue politely and cross my fingers.

Publicly, I refuse to apologise for being different, but privately, I now face a whole raft of questions, to which, thankfully, my daughter knows most of the answers.�� How grateful I am to have such an understanding and thoughtful child.�� How tired I am of trying to navigate a life clearly meant for someone with much faster reflexes than mine, and a much quicker grasp of the facts; and sad, too, to have to confess to such small trip-ups that leave me flattened, while others walk on gaily by, unaware that I even have any issues to contend with.�� ‘That? But that’s so easy!’�� Well, no, it isn’t.

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Masandrivskyi Palace, (Winding staircase)

Morning Walk

���Shambles is as shambles does������ he muttered to himself as he hirpled along the road, his shoes scuffing softly on the cobbles. ���Just what my mother used to say���.���

Sauntering past in the other direction, happily linked on the arm of her lover, Susie turned and very obviously watched the old man, as he clattered into the doorway of the newsagent and in under the jangling bell. She was having one of those days when she saw everything: the curve of his lean jaw above the twist of his scarf and his unfastened coat; the pallor of his cheeks; the way his hair, obviously unbrushed today, twisted affectionately at the back of his head. Absently, she wondered if he had eaten yet this morning.

���Wait a minute, Alice, will you?��� she queried, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. She turned and followed the man into the shop, aware that she was being even odder than usual today. If everyone indulged their hunches, the world would be a peculiar place���.it was peculiar enough, and she hardly needed to draw attention to herself, but still.

Susie took in the slightly dusty air, the rack of newspapers and the colourful array of crisps packets and fizzy bottles near the exit. But her attention was focussed on the old man, carefully clutching a small carton of milk and rooting in his pockets for change, while the shop-keeper waited, watching a screen pinned somewhere overhead. Absently he took the pound coin held aloft in icy fingers and proffered change. The old man���s head was bent slightly forward, as if the weight of the world had warped it. Susie approached the till.

���Are you all right?���

The old man blinked myopically.

���Yes, thank you��� he answered, slowly and with great dignity. ���I���m fine, thank you, young lady.���

Susie wanted to ask him if he had had breakfast, if he was eating properly. She had an absurd longing to go round to his place and make a pot of soup, switch on the radio and fill his kitchen with the clatter of domestic noise, but instead, she just smiled and said, ���That���s fine, then. Take care of yourself.���

���The name���s Thomas, and I live up there – ������ he pointed absently, ���Up the hill a bit. I like to come out for my walk every morning. My sister tells me it does me good, though I sometimes wonder.���

���Your sister?���

���Ena takes care of me.���

���I���m very glad.��� Impulsively she gave the old man���s hand a squeeze. ���I���ll see you again.���

 

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Diego Velazquez ‘An Old Woman Cooking Eggs’

 

 

Natural Emotions

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I���m always dipping into��Neale Donald Walsch���s books. Lately I’ve started again with��Book Three of his ‘Conversations With God’��series, and am currently reflecting on what is written��there about the different emotions.

It comes as a considerable relief to read again, that the ‘natural’ emotions are grief, anger, envy, fear and love. These feelings are inbuilt, and essential to help us survive, self define and thrive. When these feelings are not allowed space to move and be expressed openly, they become depression, rage, jealousy, panic and possessiveness, which��might be called ‘un-natural’ emotions, though their outcome is a predictable consequence of suppression, guilt and shame.

This all sounds��eerily familiar��and important, so I recently made a point of sitting with Seline and reading through that particular opening section with her. I really��desire her to understand that emotions are important and valuable. Also, I��suspect I was hoping��to find a way of apologising for all the times I have said, ���Don���t cry��� because seeing her upset ��� particularly when that stems from frustration or anger ��� has really upset me.

Later, asking a question in passing, she quickly supplied the answer, so I am reassured that she was listening and enjoying our reading.

I like the fact that these books explain��Life so clearly. I love that I can go to bed, pick up one of them from my bedside table and in its pages find answers that speak of love, toleration, progress, moderation and success. That is soothing bedtime reading, by any measure.

Does anyone else read these books regularly? And what do you reply when someone asks, ‘And who is the author?’ I get some funny looks, when I try to explain that, well, God has transmitted these books, through Neale. Usually, I deflect the question, which is very ungracious of me….

 

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Take A Measuring Tape

Today I hoped I might escape a jinx, which seems to attach itself to me when I go to a certain part of town. This morning I was delighted to espy a parking space next to the supermarket, where I decided to pop in for soya milk, oil and tinned tomatoes.

I parked, double and triple checking that my car was parked properly, not subject to restrictions and displaying my parking badge. Returning to the car, I thought that the flapping envelope was a joke. Not properly parked? How? I was annoyed, not only because the jinx had struck again, but also because, for the life of me, I could see no evidence of any parking violation, and I still can���t.

So I came home, drafted, printed and signed a letter of appeal, enveloped it, addressed the envelope and then went out to the post office for a stamp. I could have bought one in a shop, but I took something else to post, so the journey was worthwhile, albeit time-consuming.

It will be very interesting to see what the parking people advise in their reply. They may suggest that my front driver-side wheel was about half a centimetre over the line ��� the indistinct line��� Does that mean I will be found liable to pay a fine, when 99.995% of my car was properly parked?

Increasingly I am driven to the view ��� pardon the pun ��� that the intention is to make parking regulations so complicated that we all take the bus; to make paying a penalty ticket so easy that we do it without thinking; and so complicated to appeal, that no-one bothers. You can pay a fine by telephoning an automated payment line, but you have to appeal in writing���.. I also suspect that some ticketing officers will give you a ticket for the smallest of infractions (when the ticket itself says, that s/he ���has reasonable cause to believe��� that a parking contravention has occurred). If a traffic warden can give me a parking ticket for my tyre being fractionally over the line, then in future I will have to take a measuring tape with me, just to be absolutely sure.

I hesitate to suggest that some wardens are playing games with us in these circumstances, issuing tickets for the minutest error, aware that we have neither the patience nor the inclination to adhere to appeals requirements. But sometimes, it does look like that. Which begs the question: What is the point of qualifying for parking concessions, if the regulations are so complicated, and the enforcers are so strict, that no-one feels able to go out? It will be a long, long time before I risk parking anywhere near there again.

 

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Unexpected Kindness

It has been an amazing week, so far, and it is only Thursday. Despite sitting in a chilly flat, watching the snow flying wildly along wind-lines that whistle past the window, I have felt happy and cosy in my heart, filled with unexpected and totally delightful reminders of how kind people are, how thoughtful and generous.

I was swimming on Monday, and Bob asked if I would like to go for another massage. ���Another one?��� I checked.

���Yes, certainly, if you are going to read any more of my writing������.so he set that up for me.

Tuesday I went riding, and discovered yet more thoughtfulness that makes me want to shout for joy, and weep at the same time. Such kindness makes me want to melt, which is a good thing, but also a tad embarrassing for someone of my vintage. I am not supposed to cry with delight, I am supposed to bewail the loss of my youth, feel cheated by the advancing years, the increasing uncertainty of my joints���.But no, I don���t. As a matter of fact, I feel totally delighted to be older, kinder, wiser.

Wednesday it snowed, and I stayed at home and wished I could stretch. Actually, the consequences of my inactive day were very marked: flatter mood, sore joints and stiffness. But that too, is good, as it reinforces the decision to swim regularly and get outside each day.

Today, a swim, a massage which made me feel as if I had left my body, and the most incredible music on the radio, from Orlande de Lassus (1532 ��� 1594). The tonalities and harmonies sound like something from about 1920. Lassus is this week���s composer, and worth a listen. I wish he was in the studio, so that I might ask him what he was hearing���.Donald Macleod is a very affable host for this genius.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04xrtgk

 

If this is how life works best, then I wish to live, and love, for many years yet. Thanks to everyone who makes my time so enjoyable, so filled with encounters that touch the divine.

 

Marie, 1890

Finding My Seat

This morning, riding out at Gilmerton in freezing temperatures, gloveless and probably wearing all the wrong attire, I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.�� Such happiness felt almost indecent, actually, but even that sober reflection could not force my mouth into a straighter line.����While my helpers were��struggling to keep warm and jumping around to unfreeze their extremities, I smiled inanely, filled with gratitude.�� I was instructed and counselled so carefully, and after a sore start, my legs settled down. ��Then, magically, with a straighter back and lengthening legs, sitting up from the hips instead of leading with my head, the pain left and I found my seat. ��I finally discovered what it means to sit on a horse properly, and move easily, go with the flow.

Yes, it felt odd to be sitting straight; but I am left wondering how often I have used my back mistakenly, forcing it to take responsibilities that should really, in the natural way of things, devolve more comfortably to the hips. ��Afterwards, returning to the car with that feeling fresh in my mind, I tried walking from the hips (instead of leaning forward, my��head leading the way) and found that an unaccustomed straightness and unusual confidence was the outcome. ��Immediately, I wanted to go back and say, ���Hey! Karen! You���ve taught me a new way to walk!! YAY!���

Quite an achievement for an unassuming class on a Tuesday morning. ��Must tell the ladies next week, how much I appreciate them. ��Would a box of chocolates and a large bunch of flowers be a bit over the top? ��Probably, but then ��� just imagine! ��Now, if I remember to walk from the hip, my view casts itself naturally up and outwards, instead of tilting uneasily towards the ground.�� Confidence lower in the body ��� instead of massive overcompensation in the back, neck and shoulders ��� translates into calmness, and awareness of what is happening on the horizon. It���s rather as if I have finally been given a pair of spectacles for distance, instead of being forced to wear reading glasses outside.

Wow.

 

 

 

Just Eat a Peach

I have ideas for a book, provisionally entitled, ‘Just Eat a Peach’. Here is a��tentative first chapter or introduction. Comments most welcome.

Personal observations suggest that changing personal habits can take anything from between six months and a lifetime.�� More optimistically, I would say that where there is no pressing urgency, altering personal routines and habits can be expected, to take between six months and two years.

I can’t manage comprehensive self-sufficiency. Now does this text intend, in its scope and depth, to answer every DIY question from ���How do I slaughter a pig?��� to ���What about Greenhouse gases?����� On the contrary, it is based firmly within the realms of my own experience and observations of what works and what may be a waste of time.

Where should we start?�� There is so much to consider, and potentially every area of our lives can��be re-examined.�� For the purposes of this exercise it helps us enormously to make a start with something, when we remember that we are responsible for our personal circumstances and understand that there are excellent reasons to embrace change.�� I wish to send out a rallying cry, to empower us to act, to do something, no matter how small, to make a difference.�� While many citizens charged with aspects of decision-making seem to spend their time in power struggles concerned with budgets, targets, strategies, spheres of influence and planning, we foot soldiers can set to work with our gloves off ��� or on, if you happen to be washing dishes or gardening.

Seriously, do we want to wait until we have to choose between washing the dishes, or washing our hair?�� Do we really expect to ���have it all��� indefinitely?�� If the Kyoto Protocol and Doha amendments being negotiated mean anything, they signal that we will have to make such choices.�� Does it not make sense to start examining our habits now, so that the pains we have to go through are less agonizing?

Taking time to choose, then reflect, adapt and accept or reject our choices, is how we eventually achieve permanent shifts in our habits.�� Much of what I suggest may not work out for you; and since I started writing, various problems have surfaced which make certain apparently ���eco-friendly��� choices unworkable for me. Unless we have tried and tested something over a period, the chances are, it won���t endure, and may end up costing us more time, energy, resources and goodwill than we can readily afford.

But time is one commodity��we��seem to be��running short of, unfortunately.�� And certain themes keep coming back to me.�� On the one hand, there is some reassuring��evidence that I am on the right track; and on the other hand, I am reminded of the urgent need make a real commitment to change, to self-empowerment and improvement in my circumstances, regardless of my income bracket or job prospects. That urgency is galvanising.�� I don���t know about you, but, I want to make a difference. ��I don���t want to rely on others to come up with magical solutions at the last minute.

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Go Girl, Go!

She peeled back the curtains and noticed the drops of slanting rain, coursing down the window pane. ��In the cold, without any of the usual warmth in the radiators, she shivered and yearned to crawl back to her warm bed. ��But she had things to do, people to meet, appointments to honour. ��Breakfast was the usual bowl of oats and nut shavings, but she decided to brighten it with a scattering of dried, bitter berries, which brought out the flavour and fed colour to her heart.

As she stumbled to the car, her right knee collapsed and so did she, grazing her hand and grasping in vain for any handhold at the rear of her smooth, aerodynamic vehicle. ��As she leaned and slid upwards, praying desperately, despair could have taken the lid off all her hopes. ��But, as she spoke her annoyance, she noticed that it lacked its usual conviction. ��Like a chesty cough loosening in late spring, her words were blown aside, she kept her focus, and got to the baths early. ��There she swam better than she might have. ��Warmed in the sauna, she accepted an invitation to tea, chatted companionably and then zipped through all her town chores easily. ��As the wind blew, she tripped, stumbled and fell, and oft-times she could have become distracted with the discomfort at her edges, the aching joints, the cold breeze blowing rain and dirt in her face. ��There was a time when she would have.

But no more! ��Now, her determination to smile felt liberated, and bits of stumbling resistance were chaff, just to be ignored. ��She knew, now, that if she would simply keep on doing what she chose, that life would get smoother, easier, gentler, kinder and more and more and more and more FUN. ��As she crested the hill, turned for home and contemplated the many successes of the past hour, she grinned widely, felt as if she was flying, and knew, this time, she meant business. ��Go Girl, Just GO! For God���s Sake, just FLY!

 

Skydiving

 

Wingsuit flying

Default Optimism

I am an optimist, by default. I used to be a cynic, a pessimist, a realist, a fatalist, and for five minutes every so often, I dabble with a bit of anarchy.�� It feels like such a relief, to have worked my way through various stages of despair and disillusionment and arrived, a bit dishevelled and worn round the edges, at a lighter place, which I might call default optimism.�� That upward trajectory feels promising.�� As I get older, I seem to be moving in the right direction.�� As a young woman, I assumed that age brought increasing worry and cynicism, and I am immensely relieved to notice that the opposite is true.

For me, the upward trend of my thinking has a much to do with increasingly believing in Divine Organisation.�� If, having invested as much commitment and effort as we can in an outcome, we trust that everything works out with Perfect Timing ��� a thing I suspect we know and which we find encapsulated in such folk wisdom as ���What���s for you will not go by you��� and ���If it���s meant to happen, it will��� ��� then how does it help anything to insist on worrisome scrutiny?�� I notice that often we insist on recalling injustice and unhappiness in excruciating detail, because if we allowed nature to take its course, they would evaporate naturally with the passage of time.

Asking for clarity, help or solutions of any sort, and then letting go, allows natural optimism to reassert itself.�� Then,��I can go quietly and peacefully about��my business,��hopeful that at the best time and in the very best way,��my clear prayers will be answered.�� I just have to remember not to be too surprised when the outcome arrives, uttering a heartfelt ‘Thank You’, instead of pushing it away like Victor Meldrew might, by remonstrating, ���I don���t believe it!���

 

Light traces of a carousel

Writing Courses

Having edited a rather (what should I say?) vexatious piece of writing, not so long ago, I found myself metaphorically pacing the floor. (Not literally: Pacing the floor is anything but restful, but I stood up and sort of strode, almost���.which means I was feeling vexed.)

I really did not want to do any more of that particular piece, because the same questions came up over and over again. Just little things, like passive voice, intrusive narrator, too many words obscuring meaning, and lack of ���.pace, perhaps. I caught myself thinking about facilitating a writing course. Just fleetingly, I decided that would be good. And let that idea go, because I always dismiss my new ideas.

So, when a friend recently warned me against thinking too hard, because I always argue myself out of my good ideas I was struck both by the uncanny accuracy of her warning, and by the permission, nay, encouragement she was giving me to be more creative, spontaneous and to try something new. For God���s sake, girl, woman! Try something new and see where it takes you. How old do you have to be, before you live your life as you choose?

Then, entirely unconnected, I sat up in bed late at night and started scribbling notes like a maniac, which gave me an outline for a writers’ course; and before I had lost this enthusiasm, I phoned and sorted out dates, booked a room and paid the deposit,��dealing with��all the practical details that would commit me, before my usual arguments came back to bully me into doing nothing. It happened easily, and the details were no problem. So, I take that as a good sign.

Course notes ��� progressing well. Perfectionism���.harnessed creatively, I hope. Excitement ���brewing nicely.